


innate sorrows

by midsommur



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: F/M, orig posted on my tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midsommur/pseuds/midsommur
Summary: There are nights where Bruce comes home, where he does not look like himself, where his tired eyes and the smudged paint underneath do not yet fully reconcile with the image of a stable man.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	innate sorrows

There are nights where Bruce comes home, where he does not look like himself, where his tired eyes and the smudged paint underneath do not yet fully reconcile with the image of a stable man.

Yet his body is still there, solid and real, and she welcomes it with warm arms and languid legs. She welcomes him with plush lips and soft touches. She reaches deep within his soul, where no one has yet to discover, and pulls a raw, broken man to the surface to heal.

It’s as if the exhaustion oozes off of him, as he’s all but tumbling into the mattress, into her arms. Long fingers pry underneath his suit, the cold metal of it reverberating a chill through her skin.

She does not ask for the details of the night, the escapades that transpire. She does not need to. She reads it off of his skin, the mottled purple-blue bruises, the red abrasions that run both deep and shallow on him.

This was all fairly new. The Batman was new.

The trauma was not. The injuries and the torment alike were not.

These nightly rituals, occurrences, whatever they may be were all tried and true practices that she’d known in her blood. A pattern since their youth. Bruce played too hard, scraped his knees on rocks and bled deeper than anyone she’d ever known.

And years later, she’d still clean him up all the same.

He’s especially quiet, for some unknown reason. Though the wounds on his skin were easier to read, she tended to find herself aching to peel back the denseness of his skull and crack open his truest inner thoughts.

She would never ask. He would tell her what he wanted to, and it would be enough. He gave her plenty, more than he’d ever given anyone. Silent assurances, promises of safety, security. Love and devotion. Sanctity.

His suit is heavy, lined with kevlar or something of the sort, for the sake of his protection. He had explained this to her while showing her a prototype-first model of what he would be wearing when he would go out doing god knows what at night. Just two years ago felt so long ago, and though her external worrying and constant fretting has diminished significantly, she still internally feels jarring fears and concerns every time he leaves her at night.

Bruce groans, the sound deep in his throat as the two of them move at an equivocally slow pace while removing his armor. It clatters heavily onto the wood floor.

She’s grown tired of brief, inconspicuous answers as to what and how and why he ascertained his injuries. She doesn’t ask anymore. Sometimes, she thinks he’s proud of them, the way he wears them, rips open a few more when old ones begin to fade. Maybe he liked this, brutal torture, punishment. Maybe it’s what he thought he deserved.

All the same, he seethes through his teeth as she cleans his cuts and sutures his skin. She touches his bruises, presses hard, then harder into the purple, and watches his face hardly change at all.

“Bruce,” she hums, with a voice so soft, so airy that he wasn’t sure he’d even heard it. “Are you going to sleep tonight?”

His head lolls back into the pillows she’d set up prior for him, next to her spot on the bed. “I don’t know. Don’t think so.”

With a grunt, she moves to lay alongside him, head propped up on her hand, elbow dug deep into the mattress. Carefully, as to not startle him (as if anything ever could), she moves her hand across his face, the pads of her thumbs swiping along the black greasepaint under his eyes.

“I like this,” she tells him, a smile entertaining her lips. “Have I ever told you? I think this is such a great look for you.”

Tilting his head to meet her gaze, Bruce grins, the gesture moving slow over his face. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she nods, her hand moving up to take root in his dark hair. “Think you should wear it all the time. It suits you very well.”

Any previous exhaustion is seemingly gone, or at least hidden conspicuously now, as Bruce takes hold of her body, sliding her underneath as he holds himself overtop her, arms barred on either side of her head. The sudden change in dynamic makes her laugh, as she moves both hands to tug at his hair. “Bruce,” she smiles teasingly, “Are you going to fuck me?”

“Yes,” he tells her, before inching closer to her, their foreheads and noses a breath away from touching. “If you ask nicely.”

She can’t respond, as he’s already assured her silence through pressing his lips to hers, one of his free hands moving down quickly to tug at the hidden lace she’d worn. A moan is caught in her throat as he kisses her breathless, fingers inching closer, digging deep into her thighs. When he pulls away from her, there’s a strangled cry that leaves her lips.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, “Couldn’t breathe?”

He knows what he’s doing, in fact, he’s very well aware of the game he was inviting her to play. Her chest rises and falls as she catches her breath, watching his hand inch slowly up to her neck.

“You liked it, though, didn’t you?”

She meets his gaze, the taunting smile and dark eyes making his words all the more provoking. Instead of answering with words, she simply guides his hand there faster, her hand pressed atop his, holding the weight of his down against her throat harder than he’d ever intended. His big hand pushes her chin up, and her eyes dare him forward.

Everything progresses much faster after that, once their intentions were set and acknowledged. She’d take anything and everything he’d give her—his words, his mind, his body, his soul. And in moments like these, when he was so willing to give, god, did she take. She pulls and takes until he has no more, nothing left to give, to offer. In turn, she fills him with love, with warmth, passionate hope and healing. A will, a desire to further push and a reason to return. To come back home, and that home held meaning.

Maybe Bruce Wayne would never know peace. Maybe the Batman would never finish his quest in seeking vengeance, justice, or retribution. Maybe the weight of the world would firmly crush them both.

But in moments like these, where he holds her, holds the small, frail, beautiful personification of love and adoration in his arms, his vitality in all her glory—the weight feels all the more bearable.


End file.
